


Better Late Than Never

by Resoan



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Landsmeet is over - Loghain is alive, and Alistair is bitterly resigned to his fate: marrying Anora and becoming King. Slyrea Tabris must still lead the army to defeat the Blight, but she can’t help feeling a bit sentimental when she stumbles upon Duncan’s shield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Late Than Never

The hour was late, the sun hovering above the horizon though common folk were still about in the Market District: mostly merchants who were closing up shop for the day or mercenaries on their way for a pint at the Gnawed Noble Tavern or a night of salacious carousing at the Pearl. One Slyrea Tabris was amidst them, her drakeskin armor a tad loose around the elbows though she was hardly about to complain otherwise. It had been a long, tedious, and distasteful day: one filled with supposed betrayal, childish ideals trod underfoot, and pragmatism conquering vengeance in one fell swoop.

 _Yes, swooping is bad._ Slyrea could recall Alistair’s earlier reference to Morrigan’s words eerily vividly, the elf shaking away the illusion moments later. She had gone into the Landsmeet Chamber warily, anxiously: as though she were traipsing into a courtroom and awaiting judgment the human nobles and all their pompous attitudes would render. Her nerves had been frayed, even more so than when she had faced the Broodmother in the Deep Roads or slain Vaughn in a fit of righteous fury for daring to violate what should have been a sacred and joyous occasion. Her only solace when Loghain began leveling outrageous, rhetorical questions in her direction was Alistair; his presence had been a bulwark of support, his lips pulled in a tight smile the only time she dared glance back in his direction.

She had fought the duel herself: it had not been a particularly easy skirmish, but Loghain’s age and cumbersome armor had ultimately decided the battle in Slyrea’s favor. Slyrea was prepared to kill this odious man, this man who claimed that Grey Wardens had killed Ferelden’s king and lost the Battle of Ostagar for the kingdom; when Riordan began to speak, the Orlesian of all people defending Loghain and compromising with an alternate route, Slyrea’s resolve wavered. They made sense, Riordan’s words; once the realization sunk in, Slyrea knew she had already lost the only man, the only  _human_  she had ever loved. Alistair’s angry expression would forever stain Slyrea’s thoughts and memories, but dwelling on the past would little help in defeating the Blight.

Realizing she had been lost in thought for too long, Slyrea hurried into Wade’s shop once more, Herren ready to greet his last customer of the day before recognizing her petite form. “Oh, it’s  _you_ ,” his words were coated in a veneer of dislike, though Wade was all a-smile. After conversing briefly with the pair and buying a few things, Slyrea returned to the nearly abandoned market; she should return to Eamon’s estate, but something compelled her away: towards the alley where the Wonders of Thedas shop and the old warehouse were located.

The Grey Warden’s cache of items was in the Warehouse, if Slyrea’s memory were not failing; she supposed, in hindsight, bringing Loghain might have been a good idea, but it was far too late: her eyes wandered over the finery, a few blades and axes glimmering in the firelight in addition to some chests of old maps and more dated armor. She didn’t grab everything she could have - most of her party was already perfectly well-equipped - though one of the items in particular caught her eye: a shield, bearing a familiar crest with a larger Grey Wardens seal plastered on one side.  _Duncan._  Slyrea fingered the item as though it were holy, the elf treating the object even more delicately than the ashes she had retrieved from Andraste’s supposed urn (Slyrea was not altogether convinced, though Alistair and Leliana had tried their hardest to convince her otherwise).

Her face fell when she realized she would never had the opportunity to give it to Alistair, however; he was holed away in one of the private rooms in the castle, and no doubt he would remain there until the Maker himself returned to Thedas. Deciding it was too precious to keep hidden away in a warehouse, Slyrea strapped it onto her gauntlet and turned to the entrance; its weight was heavy, especially considering Slyrea was not familiar with the warrior’s arts: she herself favored twin daggers, speed over power.

Upon returning to Arl Eamon’s estate, one of many servants informed her quite nervously that the Arl and Queen had already departed for Redcliffe: the darkspawn doubtlessly traveling in that direction and expected to strike in the near future. After packing away Duncan’s shield, Slyrea roused her companions and declared that they, too, would be heading for the village; the party dynamic had altered drastically since Alistair’s disappearance and Loghain’s admission. Slyrea could see the heavy disapproval hanging over Wynne’s head, Leliana’s features downcast though quite obviously crestfallen. Now whom would the bard have to torment about his feelings?

“Warden,” Loghain’s gravelly voice interrupted Slyrea’s internal dialogue, the elf nodding once to indicate her understanding before heading out into Denerim once again; it would take them nearly a week to reach Redcliffe, and Slyrea did not want to linger a moment longer than necessary.

The trip was a tad on the monotonous side, though the party had its share of adventure once they entered the village and decided new darkspawn sheaths were in order. No villagers remained outside, and Slyrea could little help but wonder if that was due to their deaths or if the village had been evacuated beforehand. Loghain stopped briefly to look over the village, his eyes enigmatic and impossible for Slyrea to read; was he perhaps planning strategy, or deciding whether the entire area needed to burn?

“Come, let us not tarry here,” Morrigan’s voice broke through the eerie silence, Slyrea nodding in the witch’s direction. More darkspawn greeted them at the manor’s entrance, though they too were easily dispatched. Eamon’s messenger greeted them with great urgency, Slyrea vaulting up the stone steps before appearing in the foyer of the manor. Riordan’s news left Slyrea frozen in place, Anora the first to recover and ask for a confirmation. “Then we mustn’t wait a moment longer,” Slyrea’s answer was quiet, though not inaudible. “We must start a forced march to the capital tomorrow, lest Denerim fall and Ferelden with her.” Slyrea’s mind instantly thought of Shianni, Soris, and her father. They would stay safe, or Maker help her, she would murder every darkspawn ever to take breath.

“Meet me upstairs when you are ready. We Grey Wardens have something to discuss.” Riordan’s words were cryptic, and Loghain glanced at Slyrea in order to glean any indication of what it may mean. The elf tacitly and subtly shook her head at his unasked question; unsurprised, Loghain released a small sigh before heading upstairs himself. Better to get the unpleasant news over with as quickly as possible, he supposed.

Slyrea followed, but not before conversing with the leader of the dwarven forces and each of her companions first; something utterly _final_  was about to take place, and speaking to everyone set her mind at ease if only a little.

It took little time to find Loghain and enter Riordan’s room, Slyrea not altogether surprised by the revelation of how the Archdemon must perish; were she to die, would Alistair even shed a tear? The thought left a bitter taste on her tongue, her hand clenching into a fist as Loghain prodded Riordan for more answers. After being dismissed, Slyrea inclined her head, the elf slowly plodding to her own bed chambers. She didn’t recall Morrigan having been there before, but certainly the witch was there now. Slyrea listened to the mage’s plan with a stoic façade, the elf considering before making her decision.

“No.” The word was simple, and Slyrea did not hesitate. After confirming this with Morrigan, Slyrea could little feign her lack of surprise; Morrigan had always remained for a purpose, and now that she would certainly never fulfill it, why should she stay?

Slyrea traipsed to the door so better to shut it and keep out intruders (a pity she hadn’t done so earlier and avoided Morrigan’s offer in the first place), her eyes lingering in the corridor before spying a woman further down, her back to Slyrea’s eyes. On impulse, the elf called out, “Your Majesty! Might I speak to you a moment?” Slyrea almost smiled at the surprised look on Anora’s face, though it stayed but for a moment before the blonde recovered herself.

“Of course, Warden,” Anora replied, the blonde doubtlessly searching for her father’s room. She entered the room with the same air of nobility she possessed at the Landsmeet, Slyrea heading over to her small sack of possessions now placed strategically at the foot of her bed. “What is it you wanted to talk about, Warden?” Anora’s voice was neither hard nor irritated, though Slyrea got the distinct impression that the woman wished desperately to leave and find her father.

“I have something here I hoped you might give to Alistair for me.” Slyrea then produced the shield, her fingers wiping away imaginary dust from its mirror-like surface. Standing and turning to the Queen, Slyrea fixed a small, sad smile to her lips; “It doesn’t matter if he knows it’s from me, Your Majesty, but I would like him to find it regardless.” Slyrea gingerly pushed the shield into Anora’s open hands. “He’ll know what it is,” Slyrea then promised, Anora’s facial expression probing.

“Why do you not wait and give it to him after the Archdemon is dead?” Anora wondered aloud, the Queen genuinely curious and unafraid of asking a relatively safe question.

“He wouldn’t accept anything from me. You know that as well as I, Anora.” Slyrea hoped the Queen wouldn’t mind a more personal address just this once; “He’s still angry with me, and I predict he will be for the rest of his life.” Slyrea knew Alistair well, though hoped she would be wrong on this one account.

“He still cares for you, Warden,” Anora thought to protest, Slyrea’s hand raising in a defeated gesture.

“He is your betrothed, and he is no longer a Grey Warden, or anyone of consequence to me. My own feelings do not matter so much as you think they do.” Slyrea’s self-deprecating words forced a thin line onto Anora’s taut face, the Queen uncertain of how to respond. “Please go now. I’m sure Loghain would appreciate that his daughter wishes to have another evening with him,” Slyrea’s tone was implicative, though if Anora caught on the elf could not say with any certainty.

She paused in the doorway, the elf leaning against the cold stone for a few moments; both Alistair and now Morrigan were gone, her original two companions whom she had thought would be by her side when the Archdemon fell, its carcass finally driving the darkspawn back into the Deep Roads. A fleeting sense of abandonment filtered through Slyrea’s senses, but she quickly dismissed it; while they had both left for reasons of their own (childish ones, but Slyrea was hardly an unbiased judge), Slyrea couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible. Had she betrayed Alistair’s trust? Had she too hastily turned away Morrigan’s ridiculous plot to bypass the Grey Wardens’ sacrifice? Even if she hadn’t, she doubted very much Loghain would have agreed; she supposed she could have pulled rank on him, ordered him to do so, but she would lose any respect for Loghain had for her, and giving Morrigan an Old-God child was not worth that, not now after losing Alistair whom Slyrea had expected to remain by her side always.

“You must be contemplating deeply indeed,” Loghain’s words shook Slyrea from her musings, her eyes blinking up to the taller warrior. “Anora told me of your…gift to Maric’s bastard.” Loghain had never used Alistair’s name ever since he had been recruited; Slyrea had wanted to ask why, but assumed she would never get an intelligible answer from the typically-vague and cryptic man. “Kind of you, considering,” Loghain then murmured, his arms crossing over his chest. His eyes then glazed over: as though he were losing himself in a memory or joining together his thoughts to better make them understandable.

Slyrea didn’t respond right away, the elf’s eyes lowering to the ground; she supposed it was only out of sentiment, but what else was she to do with the shield? She doubted very much Loghain would have deigned use of the item; and even if he had, no doubt he would use every opportune moment to disparage the former Commander of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens for being too Orlesian (which in and of itself was incorrect). “Why do you care?” Slyrea then found herself speaking, weary eyes finding icy ones and holding the gaze. At one time Loghain may have intimidated her, frightened her even, but not anymore; a begrudging respect, tempered by her ire of Ostagar and surprise of his martial skill during their duel, had formed for Loghain.

“Hah, I don’t know, Warden,” Loghain answered with the barest hint of a chuckle. It was rare when Loghain wore an expression other than a scowl or a thin line for lips; “Warden,” Loghain then began slowly, the warrior uncertain and taking his time in his deliberation. With a quick shake of his head, Loghain began again, “Slyrea.” It was a foreign word on his tongue, the elf somewhat dazed Loghain had addressed her as such though waiting for him to continue what would likely be something she would never hear again. “I was wrong, about you if nothing else.” Loghain seemed almost unhappy, though his lips twisted into an ironic smile. “I would be dead if I had been correct, so I suppose I can’t complain,” he continued, a hand reaching down to Slyrea’s shoulder and steadying itself upon her smaller frame. “Do not ever let anyone, especially that  _whelp_  of a boy, ever fool you into thinking you are not worthy, or admirable. There will be many, I am certain, who will try.” It was obvious Loghain had rarely attempted to console someone, or he had no skill for it. “I thank you for my life, Warden, such as it is. I owe my country, and Maric, at least this much.” Those were his final words as melancholy tinged his expression and his hand retracted to his side.

“Sleep well, Loghain.” Slyrea need not remind him of the difficulty of the days ahead; he probably knew better than she what to expect and what was to come.

The next morning dawned more quickly than anyone wished, though an ugly duty awaited them: one that promised death, defeat, and disease, though the benefits of victory far outweighed the risks of defeat. The battle of Denerim was grisly, filled with many casualties; blood ran through the streets of the Market and inner halls of Fort Drakon, though Slyrea ensured the bloodshed in the Alienage was minimal – in that, at least, she mostly succeeded. Only after ensuring Shianni and the rest of her family had not been killed by the darkspawn did she, Loghain, Wynne, and Shale head for Fort Drakon. Nothing but adrenaline and a queer mechanical numbness fueled her movements as they made it to the top of the fortress: the tainted beast from Slyrea’s dreams screeching the moment she and Loghain appeared.

The battle was long, intense; more than once Slyrea had been knocked to her back only to be revived by one of Wynne’s spells. Loghain had always been there, though; he had protected her if she fell back, or if she attempted an attack that left her prone to injury. It was slow-going, though the dragon was beginning to tire; razor-sharp daggers pierced the fleshy eyes, found a few slivers of vulnerable skin exposed between a few scales. The sound the beast made once her daggers ripped through tender, sensitive hide of its underbelly was deafening, frightening even, but Slyrea hadn’t come all this way to run from fear now, The dragon’s head sagged closer to the ground as blood began pooling alarmingly underneath its belly, and that was when Loghain turned to Slyrea, his features bloody, ragged, and worn. “Let me slay the monster, Warden. Let me atone for my wrong-doings,” Loghain pleaded, his eyes soft though his tone was determined.

“It was an honor, Loghain. May the Maker keep you,” Slyrea murmured the last religious bit to herself, the elf allowing a few, silent tears to slide down her cheeks as she watched him go. He was a respectable man, a good one despite his many mistakes, and Slyrea was honestly sad to see him go, even if it was an honorable death. She had to consciously shove from her mind the things Alistair might have said had he been present.

* * *

Anora’s coronation was a happy occasion, however; Slyrea was beyond surprised to note that Alistair was present in the Landsmeet chamber, though she tried her best not to look at him as Anora spoke to the nobles of Ferelden. When asked for her boon, Slyrea hesitated, eyes falling to the ground. “Your alienage requires more rights, Your Majesty.” Slyrea then met the Queen’s gaze, her banter assenting as she finished her speech in a few simple but ultimately effective lines.

The celebration afterwards was a gala event, wine flowing and laughter echoing within the Royal Palace’s walls. Slyrea and her companions had been invited to partake in the revelry, along with the nobles and many dignitaries who were to be expected for such a momentous occurrence. The cacophony in the room, however, eventually began to grate on Slyrea’s nerves, and so the elf trotted out into one of many looping corridors in order to hear her own thoughts and get away from another of Oghren’s many drunken tales.

“So here you are,” the voice was quiet, a murmur that reverberated off of the stone walls. Slyrea knew well to whom the voice belonged, though she hadn’t thought Alistair would purposefully seek her out, not so soon after allowing Loghain to live and subsequently slay the Archdemon.

“What of it?” Slyrea wondered, eyes lifting to view the human who lumbered closer with each step. His steps were measured, his internal struggle manifesting as a small expression twisting his lips into a few frowns and smiles.

“This. Why give me this? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Alistair was a mere foot away now, Duncan’s shield shaking within his sweaty palms.

Slyrea looked away, somewhat ashamed that Alistair might appreciate the gesture even still; “I thought I told Anora not to divulge that…,” her voice trailed off, Alistair pressing forward and placing an arm between Slyrea and her only means of escape.

“Do you really think me that stupid? You were the only one I mentioned this to! Who  _else_ would have even known anything about it, let alone who to give it to?” Alistair’s words were emotional now, high and nearing hysterics.

“I-I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have thought… Please, just let me go, and we can pretend this never happened.” Slyrea did not usually shy away from confrontation, but her heart was breaking all over again from the hurt and ire in Alistair’s amber eyes.

“What?! No! I…I am still angry, but I am glad to have Duncan’s shield,” Alistair’s voice dropped, as did his eyes. The moment of silence was tense, Slyrea now suddenly wishing she had not agreed to palace protocol and left her daggers in her temporary upstairs bedroom. “It drives me crazy, you know,” Alistair finally murmured, his hands abruptly dropping the shield as he leaned closer: his nose practically touching Slyrea’s neck. “Even after everything that happened, I still can’t stop thinking about you. I wasn’t sure what to think after the Landsmeet, but after Anora gave me that shield… I think I knew. If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry I reacted that way, but I still  _hate_  that bastard,” Alistair finally finished, his chest heaving as he fought off tears.

Slyrea’s back had tensed, their proximity bringing a flush to her cheeks though she had remained silent throughout his short monologue. “I know,” Slyrea whispered quietly, an arm rounding his torso to rub his back soothingly. She felt the need to apologize herself, though could not think of any reason for which she needed to do so; “Come. They are probably wondering where we are,” Slyrea continued quietly, Alistair’s forehead now pressed against her shoulder.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this, Slyrea. You  _knew_  I didn’t want to be king.” Alistair apparently still clung to the hope that he would soon wake from an unappealing dream.

“You’ll make a fine and strong king, Alistair. Do not forget that, nor let anyone tell you differently.” Slyrea squared her shoulders and lifted Alistair’s head with her hand. Their gazes locked as he pulled back, Slyrea wishing desperately she could look away but finding herself rooted to the ground.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Alistair wondered with a small smile, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb gently brushing the soft skin he found there.

“I do,” Slyrea nodded, the elf attempting to steal every last semblance of warmth from Alistair she would probably ever have the privilege of receiving. The smile on Alistair’s face only became more sentimental, and Slyrea’s head fell back against the wall when lips were suddenly upon her own. She allowed herself a few, guilty, wonderful moments until she pushed him away by the shoulders, his expression pained and confused. “I’m sorry, Alistair.” Slyrea bent down and carefully hoisted up Duncan’s shield once more before placing it into Alistair’s open hands; pausing as she was about to walk away, Slyrea turned, pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, and strode purposefully back into the dining hall.

As Loghain had given her perhaps a gift more precious than any Alistair had ever given, so she had given something equally as valuable to Alistair. 


End file.
